


your wish (is my command)

by Setkia



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Bartender!Crowley, Crowley is Confused and Horny, Demisexual Aziraphale, Despite Crowley's Best Efforts, Knowing Me Probably a Slow Burn, M/M, Professor!aziraphale, Sugar Baby Crowley, Sugar Daddy Aziraphale, They're Ineffable Idiots So Obviously, aziraphale is lonely, platonic sugar daddy, probably mutual pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22836232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setkia/pseuds/Setkia
Summary: Crowley doesn’t claim to be an expert at this whole Sugar Daddy/Sugar Baby thing, but at thirty-five, he’s quite sure he’s pushing the envelope.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Should I start another multi-chapter fic for this fandom? No. I should not. Will I anyway? Yes. Rating may go up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why do you care?”
> 
> Crowley blinks. He’s never been asked such a thing. He shrugs. “It’s the cliché, ain’t it? A bartender lending an ear to your woes?”
> 
> The man stirs the glass. “You don’t have to.”

It’s last call when the man with the tartan bowtie steps into Good Intentions.

He’s got light hair and a walk that says he’s too exhausted to carry the weight of his own body.

“You look like you could use a drink.”

The man looks through him, before blinking a few times. His gaze eventually focuses, as though the flaming redhead in the dark sunglasses was somehow easy to miss. “Erm, I suppose I do.”

Cleaning out a glass, Crowley sets it on the countertop. “What can I get you?”

“Er, do you have Moet et Chandon?”

“Ooh, the fancy shit.” He eyes him closely, taking in the bags beneath his eyes and the way he’s rubbing his temples. “Tell you what? I’ll give you an Old Fashion. On the house, cause I’m feeling nice today. You got a name, or should I call you Moet et Chandon?”

“Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeats. “Suits you. Bit of a mouthful, but in a good way.”

He gets busy preparing the man’s drink, the loud music of the bar long since turned off. It’s the graveyard shift, which does exist, even in the bartending business The obnoxious pop songs get annoying real fast, and so when it’s totally dead, Crowley opts for silence.

“There ya go.” He slides the drink across the bar to the man who stares at it hesitantly before picking it up. “So, you wanna bitch?”

“Excuse me?”

Crowley barks out a short laugh. “No need to look all offended. I said, wanna bitch? Nag, complain, that sort of thing. I’ve seen sorrier sods than you get shitfaced, and had to lead ‘em outside to puke. Something tells me you’re more refined than that. What’s eating at you?”

“Why do you care?”

Crowley blinks. He’s never been asked such a thing. He shrugs. “It’s the cliché, ain’t it? A bartender lending an ear to your woes?”

The man stirs the glass. “You don’t have to.”

“Kind of do. S’what I get paid for.”

“You get paid to serve them, not be their therapist.”

Crowley grins. “I like you. Mind repeating that to my boss next time he stops me from sucker punching some cheating scum?”

The man huffs out a chuckle. “I don’t usually go to places like this.”

“I could hardly tell.”

Aziraphale eyes him critically, as though he’s not sure if he senses the sarcasm in his voice. “Why’s it called Good Intentions?”

Crowley grins. “Would you believe me if I told you you’re the first bastard to ask me that?”

“Yes,” says the man bluntly.

Crowley finds himself liking him more and more. All in all, not a bad way to end a shitty shift.

“Well, you know the saying. The road to hell is paved with—”

“Good Intentions.”

“Got it in one. You look like an academic, or is that just the tartan talking?”

The man wrinkles his nose as he takes his first sip from his glass. “You hoping I tip good?”

“Nah, told you, this one’s on the house. I’m curious.” And he finds, to his own surprise, he really is. He doesn’t get clients like Aziraphale. Quiet, unassuming clients with strange names who look uncomfortable, and lonely in a way that’s different from the typical bar-hopping loner. “So, should I be calling you Professor?”

“Only if you’re my student.”

Crowley hums as he cleans the rest of the glasses behind the counter. “‘fraid I dropped out of whatever higher level education you teach at. Wanna tell me what I’m missing out on?”

“Mostly classics, some religious studies. Bit of philosophy.”

“Hmm. Well, if it’s any consolation, if I _were_ your student, I wouldn’t be skipping no classes.” Crowley winks and watches in fascination as the man’s ears turn red. “So, philosophy. Lover of Sophia, huh?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Yes.”

“Surprised?” Crowley asks, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not just a pretty face. Did my fair share of reading before the world gave up on me.” Finishing up, he flings the cleaning rag on his shoulder and hoists himself up onto the bar. “Mind if I take a seat here? Never mind, I’m doing it anyway. Don’t tell my boss.” He shifts slightly. “But yes, I know all about Plato. That fucker’s cave, and all that shit. He was pretentious, that’s what he was. And probably fucking Aristotle, who was another piece of shit, of a different kind, if you know what I mean.”

Aziraphale laughs and takes another sip of his drink. “I think you’re disregarding the over forty year age difference between the two men.”

“I think _you’re_ disregarding how much the Greeks loved to fuck mentors. Bet Plato graduated from bottom with Socrates to top with Aristotle. Hellenistic times were _gayyyyy_.” He glances at Aziraphale. “Uh, sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“You mentioned religious studies, is all.”

“You think I’m homophobic?” Aziraphale laughs. “I did mention the _classics_ , didn’t I?”

Crowley shrugs. “You never know with people.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders do this weird dance where they pull back ever so slightly and then roll forward. It’s as if he’s literally trying to unruffle feathers on his back. “Well, I will officially tell you that I am _not_ one of those people.”

“Wow, calm down. I wasn’t making any accusations.” Crowley fiddles with his apron ever so slightly. “So. Back to my point. Aristotle, top or bottom? Think he fucked Alexander the Great?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “The man named an entire city after his _horse_ , of course Alexander took it up the ass.”

Crowley chokes on his own tongue from how hard he ends up laughing. There’s something about seeing such a prim and proper man like Aziraphale casually talk about how much of a bottom bitch Alexander the Great is that’s really doing it for him.

They continue to talk about pointless things (mostly who fucked who in Ancient Greece, and whether or not anyone was straight — Crowley votes no) until Aziraphale has finished his glass and Crowley should’ve closed the bar half an hour ago.

“Well then,” says Aziraphale as he folds the napkin on which his drink was served, and places it inside the empty glass. “This was fun,” he squints at his nametag, “Anthony.”

“Crowley,” he corrects.

“Crowley,” echoes Aziraphale. “Thank you.”

He sees him reaching for his wallet, but Crowley’s quick to cut him off. “Told you, it’s on me.”

“I insist.”

“Ugh, capitalism.”

Aziraphale gives him a shy grin, and hands him a bill.

Crowley blinks.

He rubs his eyes.

“Er, this is—”

“Yours,” says Aziraphale casually, turning on his heel to leave.

“But this is—”

“Yours,” repeats Aziraphale and then he’s gone.

Crowley stares at the hundred pound note.

What a strange man.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you …?”
> 
> “Forget about it. It’s a school night, I’m being ridiculous—”
> 
> “Shit, did you just ask me to be your sugar baby?”

The rocks of someone’s gin and tonic land on the countertop the moment Crowley spots a man in tweed.

He’s been jumpy these past few days, and Beel has totally noticed. It’s hard not to, when your best bartender is suddenly forgetting the “shaken, but not stirred” part of the order, and humming one of the solos from _Orpheus_. He won’t admit to a word of it though. He _does_ have his pride. Perhaps a bit too much of it, if he’s being honest.

Thankfully, the patron is too sloshed to care very much and it’s an easy fix. He slides the order to him, making a mental to note to cut him off should he ask for another one in the next thirty minutes, then searches the crowd for Aziraphale.

Unlike every other time he’s done this in the last five days, his eyes actually meet the professor’s, who walks towards him with a new purpose in his stride. He still looks remarkably out of place.

Crowley’s quite sure it was a fluke that such a refined gentleman ended up in a seedy establishment such as Good Intentions, but maybe he’s wrong. _Perhaps_ , his mind preys on him, _you were interesting enough for a second look._

“What can I get you, Professor?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink. Crowley gives himself a pat on the back. “Er, I was just in the neighbourhood.”

“Somehow, I seriously doubt that.”

Crowley is fully aware of the reputation of this side of Soho. All of Soho is kind of dubious, but this particular portion, known as the Shades, has just about every type of scummy shit going on in it. Mafia, hole in the wall abortion clinics who definitely do not clean their needles properly, tattoo shops that’ll also kill someone if you offer the right price, to name a few. The Shades is a fucked up place.

It’s not a place for someone like Aziraphale.

“I liked the Old Fashion. Got something else?”

Crowley narrows his eyes. If he remembers correctly (and he does, since he’s been seeing this man behind his eyelids for the past nights), it wasn’t his taste. “You can cut the bullshit. Why are you here? Not that I’m not pleased to see you here.”

“I’m sure you say that to all your clients.”

“Only you,” Crowley winks. “But, if I’m not mistaken, it’s a school night. Very irresponsible, Professor Aziraphale.”

The light haired man fiddles with his hands as Crowley pours him a glass of water. “I’m … I wanted to propose an arrangement.”

“An arrangement?” the redhead echoes.

“OI! Shithead, where’s my Blowjob?”

“I’ll give you Buttery Nipples if you don’t shut the fuck up!” Crowley yells over Aziraphale’s head. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“I can come back later.”

Crowley glares at the man seated in the back, downing perhaps his third Liquid Cocaine. If he was truly as sinister as Beel thought, he’d put a cyanide capsule in the loser’s drink. Unfortunately, Crowley has few connections to dealers of that kind. Plus, he’s too broke to afford the good poison.

“No, I’m owed a break anyway.” Slipping off his apron, he lifts the counter and exits. “Beel! I’m taking my break!”

Hastur glares at him from his side of the bar.

“Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss. You can blow Ligur later,” Crowley snaps. “So. You wanna get out of here?”

“Are you sure you’re allowed to just … leave?”

The redhead shrugs. “S’not like my coworkers haven’t done worse. C’mon.” He reaches out to put a hand on the other man’s shoulder, then pauses. “Mind if I touch you?”

“Ah, I—”

“Right, course. Sorry.” He drops his hand.

“No, I just meant …” Aziraphale’s eyes dart around. “Never mind. Yes, you can touch me.”

Crowley blinks.

Seems the Professor is full of surprises.

Even with the man’s permission, Crowley keeps his touch light as he steers the man out of the pub and into a back alleyway. He fiddles in his back pocket for his lighter, cursing the tightness of his jeans. They’re a statement all right, a statement to how dumb he is. Maybe keeping up with the trends is more effort than its worth.

“Mind if I light one up?”

Aziraphale shakes his head, making a gesture for him to continue.

Crowley is careful to face away from him, regardless. He has no control over where the smoke goes, but he figures it’s a common courtesy. “So. What did you want to chat about?”

“I was wondering if I could … that is … would you be interested in … an arrangement?”

Crowley’s eyebrow raises. “Arrangement?”

“Erm, yes.”

“You say that like it’s something salacious.” Crowley smirks. “You asking me to give you a quickie?”

“No!” The man is more than a little flushed. It’s absolutely adorable the way his ears turn the shade of a tomato. “No, that wasn’t what I was implying at all! I …” He fiddles with his hands. “That is, I enjoy your company, you see. And I …” He shakes his head. “Never mind, this is ridiculous, you have work to do—”

“Hey, no,” Crowley says as softly as he can manage despite how quickly the words get out of his mouth. “I know I’m not like, well, we’re strangers, but you look like you could take a load off.” He winces. “ _Not_ like that. I just meant, er …”

“I know what you meant.”

Crowley grins sheepishly. “Anyway, I’m here to listen.”

“I thought I told you that wasn’t your job.”

The redhead shrugs. “Maybe I just want to.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“You don’t know me.”

Aziraphale looks at him with a certain scrutiny that would make him squirm were it not for his sunglasses. “Neither do you.”

“I could. Get to know you, I mean.”

Is he really trying to make a friend? He’s thirty-five Goddamn years old. Now’s a bit late to try expanding his social circle which consists of one person— himself.

Aziraphale is silent.

Crowley’s shoulders drop.

“Or not.” He tries to brush it off. Like he didn’t just put himself out there for the first time in who knows how long, only to be rejected. What else did he expect? Contrary to Aaron Burr, the rich don’t really enjoy slumming it. “No big deal—”

“I would of course compensate you for your time—”

The two freeze.

“Er.”

Crowley blinks.

“Are you …?”

“Forget about it. It’s a school night, I’m being ridiculous—”

“Shit, did you just ask me to be your sugar baby?”

“No!” the man is so flustered, Crowley’s quite sure he’d fall over if his will was any weaker. “I would never use you in such a way! That would be … disrespectful.”

“I think you did.”

“I don’t want sex,” says the light haired man. “I just … I get lonely.”

“And want company.”

“Not like that.”

“Sure, it’s not like that.” Crowley flicks the ash off his cigarette. “There’s no reason to be ashamed. We all do it. Well, the aces don’t. Which is fine. You know. I’m not hating on the non-sexuals, wherever they fit on the spectrum. I think they get it easier than us sexuals, sometimes controlled by our appetite.” Crowley winces. “I er, I didn’t mean to assume—”

“I’m on the spectrum, if that’s what you’re asking. And I also think you’re getting ahead of yourself. I was just saying … I don’t have a lot of time in my schedule to do things. I teach many classes, and am constantly grading, even with teaching assistants. I could use someone to talk to. Someone from the outside. And I, of course, wouldn’t make you do it for nothing.”

Crowley tilts his head. “Sounds like you’re trying to sell yourself to me, like you’re some kind of product.” He curses capitalism for the umpteenth time. “Why wouldn’t I just hang with you, free of charge?”

Aziraphale chuckles. Crowley knows that sound. That’s the sound of someone who hates themselves.

“Would you accept? Payment, I mean.”

Crowley stares at the man. He’s a professor, a respectable one, anyone can see that. His idea of a fun time is clearly a night spent at home, reading an impressive tome. He seems like the sort to be satisfied with the cards fate has dealt him. But if there’s anything he’s learnt in his profession as a bartender, everyone has woes, and could use an ear.

He’s clearly embarrassed to be bringing this up. As though he’s too prideful to admit to his lonesomeness. But his insecurity about himself shines brighter than his hubris. He seems genuinely convinced without the money Crowley wouldn’t want to spend time with him.

Crowley is maybe just a little obsessed with the man. Disproportionate to how much he actually knows about the man, for sure.

Here he was, idiotically convinced Aziraphale, a _professor_ , would want to befriend a college drop out.

It’d do him well to remember his place.

“Yeah. I guess I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I refer to Crowley's part of Soho as the Shades, a part known to exist in Ankh-Morpork, well yes, yes I did. Also I confess I know nothing about bartending, or alcohol. And also yes, I did stress the asexual importance because I think it is important. I'm on the spectrum myself, and think it's important to recognize them. Saying that, I make jokes about my "sexual" friends a lot. It's all in good fun, and I do fully respect anyone's sexual choices.

**Author's Note:**

> So I did research and 100 pound notes are NOT in circulation in Britain, but let's just pretend they are.


End file.
